


Made of Star Stuff

by rivlee



Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space, Alternate Universe - Star Trek Fusion, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-03-04 02:00:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13354131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivlee/pseuds/rivlee
Summary: Runner Conley goes from Earth to Mars to Yorktown and reflects on his life when he stumbles on part of of his past in a bar.





	Made of Star Stuff

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scramjets](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scramjets/gifts).



> For The [Pacific Secret Santa Exchange](https://pacificsecretsanta.tumblr.com/).

When Runner Conley told everyone back home he was joining Starfleet Academy he was met with laughter. An unending, rolling tide of laughter. Even his parents had tried to kindly push him to more mundane jobs; everyone wanted him stuck on terra firma and far from the stars.

Runner didn’t end up joining the Academy. He wasn’t officer material and had no hope of passing all the entrance exams. That didn't mean his Starfleet dreams were over. Runner wasn't the academic sort, but he _was_ fast and resourceful and stubborn. Starfleet still recruited him, but as a non-commissioned officer, and rather than flying out to San Francisco, he got his intergalactic ticket punched for a one-way trip to Mars and a stay at Starfleet Technical Services Academy. 

All the enlisted grunts graduated through the Technical Services Academy. It was a bit more relaxed than Starfleet Academy and a perfect fit for Runner. People weren’t aiming to captain ships or become admirals here. The recruits here weren’t officer material for various reasons: didn’t have the aptitude scores or the right attitude or the correct specialty. They were like Runner; everyone just wanted their chance at the stars. Even an organization as exclusive as Starfleet needed grunts and gophers, and hell, who could complain about studying on _Mars_ with a guaranteed job once they finished? 

He’d met a lot of good people on Mars. Made lots of friends from all over the United Federation of Planets. He’d learned surprising things about himself and liked who he’d become so far removed from his native planet and his old doubts. Standing on the observation deck of the first planet terraformed by humans and looking back onto Earth gave a whole hell of a different perspective. It made you leave a lot of your old bullshit behind, let you find all new kinds of bullshit, and let you grow. 

Runner Conley left Mars as an enlisted member of Starfleet, an official Mission Specialist and an unofficial jack-of-all-space-trades who often got picked for squeezing in between all the small and tight spaces of various ships and stations. For once in his life he was thankful for being a fast, short, scrawny little shit. It made him an invaluable asset and allowed him to see more of the galaxy than he ever could have imagined. After the equivalent of five years traveling the stars, he’d won the rotation lottery and wound-up at Yorktown. 

The base was a true achievement. A structure of glittering glass and greenery, somehow bright and alive and almost too real out in the middle of space. It felt like any big city Runner had known as a child; bars, shopping centers, apartment buildings, parks, and art galleries made it deceptively familiar. It was beautiful though, and Runner had spent his first twenty minutes after arrival just staring around the transport bay in wonder. He was now on his third week of helping Dr. Bill Smith update and re-categorize parts of the zoological database based on mission reports coming in through Yorktown’s communication lines. It was a hell of a lot of reading, but after spending nearly the last nine years of his life combing through mission reports, Runner knew had to read right through the bullshit to get the information they needed.

It was nice to have his own office too. His own desk. His own place in general. It was nice to have a home--finally--after years of working on different crews and colonies and planets. He loved the travel and wouldn’t have traded it for anything, but stability was pretty cool too. Runner had to go all the way to space to learn there was nothing wrong with finding a place to stand still. He probably couldn't learned that lesson back on Earth, but he much more preferred his chosen path. 

What he wasn’t expecting was to stumble across Robert Leckie at his new local watering hole in Yorktown. 

Of all the space gin joints in all the Federation, Leckie had to stumble into this one. 

They’d met on Mars, right near the Carl Sagan plaque outside the station, when Runner had tripped over Leckie, skinned his knee, ripped his uniform, and chipped a tooth. Leckie had been communing with the dirtt or some shit, and Runner hadn’t been checking for any bodies on the ground, seeing as how he’d never seen anyone just decide to take a nap and contemplate the mysteries of the universe under the Sagan plaque. 

Of course, this was before Runner knew just who he’d tripped over. Robert Leckie loved mysteries and old things. He still kept a bound journal and wrote with pens and graphite pencils. He almost always had some music from centuries ago playing in his quarters; _Life on Mars_ had been a particular favorite that Runner would sing the words to even years later. Leckie was an archivist and a reporter and collected people’s memories wherever he went. He had a tattoo on the inside of his wrist that shone silver even in the night. 

_We’re Made of Star Stuff_

Runner had spent so many nights in Leckie's bed, lying awake and tracing the lines of those letters while Leckie slept. There were quickies in supply closets and dark corners of the academy library, where Leckie had put his hand over Runner’s mouth and Runner had stuttered and tried not to cry out and had licked off the sweat gathered on Leckie’s wrist and thought about those words leaving their own impression on Runner’s tongue. Those words had been one of the last things Runner had seen when Leckie had cupped his cheek, his rumpled uniform shirt slipping down past his wrist, and said, _Here's looking at you, kid_ , before he gathered his bag and left the port.

A different time. Two stupid kids. And Runner had let himself fall for someone he knew was anything but permanent. Leckie only stayed around long enough to gather his stories and then left off on his next great adventure. 

And now here he was, in the only dark corner of the brightly lit bar, his worn journal on the table and an empty glass next to his arm. His curls were gone, and Runner let himself have a minute to mourn the loss. Leckie looked like a haunted man, face thinner than he remembered, head shaved, and a pink scar across his right cheek. He’d started growing a beard, full of brown and gray patches that made him look like the professor Runner had dubbed him back on Mars.

He looked like he’d been through hell. 

Runner headed straight for his table. He didn’t give Leckie a chance to react, just pulled a chair over and sat down.

“All of space out there and here we both are,” Runner said. 

Leckie’s tense shoulders dropped and his face loosened. His smile was still wicked and crooked. 

“Runner Conley,” Leckie said. “They actually let your accident prone ass roam freely around this city of crystal and glass?”

“I’ve only broken one door,” Runner said. It wasn’t his fault it was so damn clean he didn’t even realize it was there. 

“A record of restraint,” Leckie said.

His shoulders were still broad, his forearms still held the clear strength that had always made Runner’s mouth water. Even so, there was an obvious weariness to him and Runner couldn’t help but ask.

“You okay?”

Leckie shook his head. “I just came out of quarantine. UFP News sent me to Avalon.”

Runner flinched. Avalon had been battling both famine and plague for years now. It remained a matter of debate if the Federation should intervene in the matters of an unaffiliated planet. The government still fought it out while Avalon continued to die. 

“Want to talk about it?” Runner asked. 

Leckie signaled for another round of drinks. “Hell no,” he said. His eyes lingered over Runner’s face as he waited for his refill. 

“What?” Runner asked. 

“I like the hair,” he said.

Runner ran his fingers through the mess on top of his head. Dr. Smith called him a cockatoo whenever he saw it. When Runner didn’t tie it back it fell into his face, like now. He hadn’t cut it yet and didn’t really feel like it. With the new life on Yorktown he was itching to embrace all kind of changes. 

“Soft as it looks?” Leckie asked.

Runner felt that familiar tug in his belly at that cocky grin and couldn’t help himself.

“Why don’t you finish that drink and find out?”

Leckie downed his shot and then grabbed his journal. He held out his hand to Runner, his tattoo flashing in the light. 

Runner wrapped his fingers around Leckie’s wrist and tugged him close. 

“How long are you staying around?”

Leckie shrugged. “Yorktown has millions of people. How long do you think it’ll take to meet all of them?”

Runner’s face hurt from smiling too hard. Sure, it was probably going to end in disaster, but it’d be fun as hell to hold onto Robert Leckie again for as long as he could.


End file.
